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Perhaps more than the existentialist confirmation that my work doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of the universe, it is the acceptance of the fact that I am average. Even, dare I say, mediocre.
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Despite my grievances, I do want to embrace the mainstream as a more accessible base to connect with the people around me, to recognize that moments of shared emotion are just as valuable a part in experiencing art.
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The Arclight experience transcends the projection you’ve paid to see — these are the theaters that taught me how to go to the movies.
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As much as I rejoice in spilling my guts to a modest readership of unknown strangers and cheerleader-like family relatives, I halt myself from giving away everything.
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Resting at the nucleus of these stars, I found a sense of communication, an avenue to express what I wanted to without the constraint of phrases and descriptors.
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I’d like to think that our coloring books are just windows into who we are, and we are all working to understand each other’s.
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Reading “difficult” novels trained me to exist in the moment, devoting every ounce of my attention to understanding the words in front of me. I no longer find my eyes flitting to dialogue, skimming past action lines to get to the end of the book.
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It took time for me to confront the fact that wushu wasn’t just a stereotype I was undeniably bound to or a guilty pleasure I was obligated to stow away.
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Just like Aly, I, too, feared attention of any form: class presentations, piano recitals, popcorn reading.
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I don’t know the exact moment I fell out of love with playing music. Somewhere amid angry spit and demoralizing comments, I grew to fear the piano.
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